


a cure i know that soothes the soul

by hollow_dweller



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Body Worship, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, hand waving the logistics of beach sex, more of an allusion to d/s tbqh, only the barest of attempts to explain how there isn't sand fucking everywhere, very very mild exhibitionism kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26360083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollow_dweller/pseuds/hollow_dweller
Summary: The hands pause on Diarmuid’s back, the thick fabric of his robe bunched up under his armpits, and David draws away from their kiss, cocking his head slightly, questioning. Diarmuid thinks again, briefly, of the chances of being caught out here on the beach, of someone coming across them- David bare-chested, breeches undone, Diarmuid exposed entirely without the protective cover of his robe- and shivers. The thought is thrilling in a way it should not be.Then again, all of this is thrilling in a way that it should not be.orjust some beach sex, lads
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 14
Kudos: 43





	a cure i know that soothes the soul

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation for this except uhhhhhhhhh sorry? setting is canon-nebulous, doesn’t really matter if this is pre-canon or post-canon because it’s…. just porn. my Diarmuid is an adult by whatever metric you find relevant when we’re talking about fictional 13th century monks. title from Hozier’s seminal ode to oral sex, _Moment’s Silence (Common Tongue)_.

Diarmuid lays his head upon sweat-slick skin, letting the steady rise and fall of David’s chest guide his own breathing. He turns his head slightly to nuzzle into the damp, wiry hair beneath his cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat, the faint aroma of their combined spend clinging to the back of his throat. It is not exactly a scent that he would have thought to consider appealing, before, but now it brings to mind nothing but pleasant thoughts- memories of hot flesh heavy on his tongue, or taken deep within his body, or the firm grip of calloused fingers around him. 

He smiles and nuzzles closer, enjoying the feeling of broad hands rubbing lazy circles into his back, beneath his robe. He is warm in the garment- overly warm, if he is being entirely truthful- but with the exception of David’s tunic they had not taken any more time to undress than was absolutely necessary. Diarmuid had been impatient, nerves fluttering beneath his breast, strained already by the hours he had spent since preparing himself for this in the morning, every movement an acute reminder of what he had planned for their day’s excursion to the beach. 

The awareness that at any moment someone might come across them, secluded though they were, had only spurred him on further, heightening the urgency with which he had clambered into David’s lap, drawn his body against, then into, his own, taken his pleasure, and then encouraged David to find his own. Today has seen the fulfillment of a whim that has been haunting Diarmuid’s idle thoughts for some time now, and he knows this memory will follow him for some time again. 

Fingers grip his chin, gentle, and tilt his head up, drawing him out of his thoughts and into a slow, languid kiss. It stretches, lazy and indulgent as the cats that guard their grain cellar, basking in the glow of the late afternoon sun. He hums, contented, and David slides his hands along Diarmuid’s spine, palms warm against his skin. 

The hands pause on Diarmuid’s back, the thick fabric of his robe bunched up under his armpits, and David draws away from their kiss, cocking his head slightly, questioning. Diarmuid thinks again, briefly, of the chances of being caught out here on the beach, of someone coming across them- David bare-chested, breeches undone, Diarmuid exposed entirely without the protective cover of his robe- and shivers. The thought is thrilling in a way it should not be. 

Then again, all of this is thrilling in a way that it should not be. Diarmuid decided long ago that he would simply have to submit this sin to Christ’s judgement when the time comes, and hope until then that the purity of his feeling for David outweighs the transgression that is their… intemperate behaviour. 

He reaches a hand up to cup David’s face, sweeping a thumb over his cheek, and leans in for another kiss. When they separate, he only moves far enough away that he can speak, lips brushing lightly against lips. “Remove it.” 

David obliges, as he always does, tugging the fabric away from the damp skin of his body and over his head. He does not, however, toss the garment aside, as Diarmuid half expects. Instead he lays it out, spreading it across the sandy ground beside them. Then, in a single motion, he flips their bodies, controlled and careful- always so careful- hand coming up to cradle Diarmuid’s head even as his back lands on the cloth with a dull thud. 

Diarmuid huffs a laugh, looking up at David above him, enjoying the way his body covers Diarmuid’s own entirely. The abrupt change of position has separated them, and he can feel evidence of their earlier pleasure-seeking trickling out of his body and onto the fabric of his robe. Heat rises in his cheeks at the sensation, while a sort of pleased satisfaction flutters in his stomach- the thought that his body can be the source of such gratification for David, someone who has done so much for him, given him so much, is a heady one. 

David kisses him again, arms caging in Diarmuid’s head, his heavy body only barely pressing against Diarmuid’s. The suggestion of pressure is enough to excite, to make Diarmuid feel surrounded, but never trapped. He knows it would take no more than a word on his part to make David back away, and that too, the knowledge of his complete attention to Diarmuid’s desires, is exciting. 

David breaks their kiss, lightly dragging his lips down Diarmuid’s jaw, his neck. One broad hand lands on his flank, trailing from his ribs, over the curve of his hip, down and around his leg until it settles on the back of his thigh, gripping firmly to the swell of flesh just behind his knee. He flexes his leg automatically, mind distracted by the scrape of David’s teeth against his collarbone, and David presses on, folding Diarmuid’s leg up and out, holding it easily away from his body. 

He gasps, and can feel the self-satisfied stretch of lips against his skin. He lets his own hands settle in David’s hair, tangling in his curls, and he grips the strands reflexively, eliciting a grunt. He relaxes his grip immediately, concerned, and moves to take his hands away, but David shakes his head slightly and hums. Tentatively, he threads his fingers once again through the damp curls and tugs, earning himself another hum of satisfaction. 

The lips move down further, skimming over the flesh of his belly, causing the muscles there to flutter involuntarily. He squirms, slightly, and David huffs out the barest of laughs against his skin. In retaliation, he gives another, more firm, tug to the hair tangled around his fingers, and the noise he earns in response is closer to a whine. 

Lips trail along the cut of his hip, down to the edge of the hair covering his groin, mouthing lightly where the wiry curls give way to smooth, unblemished skin. His hips jerk, flesh filling and lengthening at the sensation, but David does not take him in his mouth, as he is expecting. 

Rather, his breath fans out, hot and damp, against the skin of his thigh, followed by a line of light, sucking kisses. Diarmuid spreads his legs wider, accommodating, and tries not to twitch as a tongue licks a wet stripe up through the downy hairs on his inner thigh, briefly fluttering along the crease between leg and buttock, before moving inwards. 

He realizes David’s intention, with a sensation like a hook tugging sharply on his guts, heat welling up in its wake and breaking out over his skin, a moment before those lips place a sloppy, sucking kiss to the rim of his entrance. 

His heel comes down to dig into the thick, corded muscles of David’s back as he gasps, hips bucking wildly for a moment before broad hands clamp firmly on them, pinning him in place. For lack of anything else to do he throws his head back, pressing a hollow into the sand beneath his robe. He turns his face away, eyes closed tight, rubbing his cheek against the rough-hewn wool, unable to fully process the onslaught of sensation. 

It is several long moments, his world narrowed entirely to the now-bruising grip on his hips, the wet heat of a tongue against his sensitive flesh, before he realizes that his fingers are clenched compulsively in David’s hair, his grip vice-like. A part of him recognizes that he should attempt to loosen it before he accidentally tears the strands right out of David’s scalp. The rest of him, however, can not seem to summon the mastery of his own body enough to loosen his grip, and after a moment’s fleeting guilt he abandons the thought entirely, mind subsumed once more by the melting pleasure of David’s tongue inside him. 

Sounds like whines spill from his throat and through his clenched teeth, entirely without his permission. He has not felt this out of control, this overwhelmed, since the first time David had guided him in learning the ways in which their bodies could explore the intimacy of their connection- perhaps not even then. 

They have known each other with hands, lips, and tongues, thoroughly- as thoroughly as Diarmuid had thought was possible for two people to know each other- but never anything,  _ anything, _ like this. 

He loses time, the minutes spinning out interminably, his awareness almost outside himself as David licks into him. He slides two fingers into Diarmuid without any resistance, saliva from his attentions and oil from earlier easing his way, and suddenly Diarmuid realizes- David is licking his own spend out of Diarmuid’s body. 

The knowledge hits Diarmuid like a wave crashing against the rocky shore, and his entire body locks up, mind whiting out, all thought lost to the hot, consuming flood of pleasure that swamps him in that moment. 

As it ebbs, his body twitching and shivering in the aftermath, he becomes aware that David is kneeling above him, hand wrapped around his flesh and working himself slowly, gaze sweeping over Diarmuid’s body. Diarmuid attempts to pull himself together, and failing that, barely summons enough coordination to flail a hand out, catching David’s free hand, twining their fingers together. The other hand speeds up, and Diarmuid can not help but whine again in satisfaction at the sight. 

“Show me,” he gasps, chest still heaving, voice breathier than he intends it to be. “You have made me feel so good; show me how I make you feel.” 

David grunts and tips forward, hand wrenching out of Diarmuid’s to land on the ground beside his head, keeping him from collapsing entirely as hot, wet liquid lands in stripes on Diarmuid’s belly and chest. 

They remain there for a long moment, chests heaving with the aftermath of exertion. David is radiating heat, and the arm next to Diarmuid’s head is trembling faintly, David’s body beginning to sag despite his efforts to keep himself upright. 

Diarmuid meets his heavy-lidded gaze, skin prickling pleasantly at the satisfaction he reads there. Before he can think to question the impulse, he runs his fingers through the combined mess on his chest, drawing them up and into his mouth. David makes a noise like he has been punched, a rasping gasp of air, and finally does collapse, settling over Diarmuid like an exceptionally muscular blanket. 

Diarmuid shifts to accommodate him, legs wrapping around hips, hands clutching at shoulders. David nuzzles into the skin of his throat, and Diarmuid presses a soft kiss to his sweat-damp forehead. Soon they will have to make preparations to return to the monastery, take a dip in the incoming tide to rinse off the worst of the sweat and sand from their bodies, scrub off as much of the mess on Diarmuid’s robe as they can and retrieve David’s tunic from wherever it has disappeared to. 

For the moment, however, Diarmuid relishes the feel of David’s powerful body against his, one hand in his hair and the other digging lightly into the thick muscle of his shoulder, and lets his breath even out, contentment and peace breaking over him, like surf against shore. 

**Author's Note:**

> me: hmmm, can i write porn without ever once explicitly mentioning semen or genitalia? 
> 
> y’all will have to tell me how i did- drop a comment if you’re so inclined, all feedback is welcome and appreciated! 
> 
> also, come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://hollow-dweller.tumblr.com/) if you like- i always enjoy making new friends!


End file.
